Friday, June 3, 2011

He cries to a pale cerulean moon; brightness is
keeping an eye forever frightful
On the trees we’re aware that
branches sway to something likely
A subtle rhythm may exist out there

Process notes: This is a cleave poem, it can be read three ways. I wrote this in response to Elizabeth Crawford and Jinksy's "Tuesday Collaborative Image" prompt.
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Thursday, June 2, 2011

It’s your mediocrity that filled roomsand completed every yellowed pageThe sound of your voice was as coarse as your thoughtsLooking behind old closed doors …they held answersWindows opened when closed tightly,paint accumulated in crevices,years of wear, and weather beaten

Fountains contained no more waterFunnels were clogged from lack of useLyme built up visible from your caustic eyesYou had verified all minor complexitiesheld deep beneath the surface, like twistingwire frames that no longer fit the picture

You never could’ve counted errors of missed satisfaction, or a dream of less perfect timeswhen you walked in those empty spacesI can’t remember anything about you;neither can the bench where you always sat

Saturday, May 28, 2011

Flightless bound to the earth
caught in a paradox
Dulcet sound of a cello
through horizons of mixed hues
Barbwire fences keep her on
the edge of a shore …
music is solemn in its lone chord
Waves move closer;
she shares her wing,
but not gratefully
You wait for a melody
Visits are lonesome brevity